


The Coyote's Smile

by AgeandTreachery



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Disguise, Dom Hermione Granger, F/M, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Sex Work, Smut, Sub Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27665660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgeandTreachery/pseuds/AgeandTreachery
Summary: After the dissolution of his marriage, Draco Malfoy is convinced by close friends to visit the notorious Red Slipper Room. There he catches the attention of an elusive liaison known as The Coyote.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 48
Kudos: 162





	1. A life unexamined...

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this bit of inexcusable smut floating about in my head. Before I could stop it, the darn thing manifested itself onto the page. I throw myself at the mercy of the muse. Please note that there are consensual binding and dominant behavior in this story. If that is not your cup of tea, please pass this story by!

Draco stood in front of the Red Slipper Room, scowling at Blaise and Theo. He shouldn’t be seen in this area of town, even with a glamour firmly in place. The Red Slipper Room was discreet, and Merlin knew it cost enough coin to keep the rabble out. However, he was a recently divorced former Death Eater with _just barely_ enough social capital to keep his mother invited to the right parties and prepare the way for his son to be in the most elite circles. All the money in his vaults couldn’t buy back another fall from grace. He had barely survived the first one. The sanctified Golden Trio had come to the rescue. It kept him out of Azkaban and allowed him to take over the family businesses quietly. He tried to be gracious about it. It was _very_ difficult. 

Nevertheless, Draco had married a respectable woman and produced the expected heir. Astoria Greengrass Malfoy had made all appropriate appearances with a placid disinterest and filled his bed with a warmth slightly above that of the arctic tundra. After four years, she wanted to have a separation; after five years, she filed the papers. It was all kept quiet. 

But, of course, that’s how he had ended up in front of a high-priced brothel with two of his best friends. _Why_ had he agreed to this? A two-year celibacy stent must have made him momentarily crazy. 

“Alright, gents,” Blaise bounced on the balls of his feet. “I’m going to introduce you to the best place on Earth. Pins in place?” Theo nodded eagerly, while Draco merely tipped his head in assent. “No names inside, only your monikers. If you need me, call for Adonis.” 

Draco restrained the impulse to roll his eyes. 

“Dionysis,” Theo gestured to himself and laughed. “We meet back here in three hours and return to the Adder’s Pub together.” 

“Socrates,” Draco mumbled. “And I won’t call you. Don’t call me. Three hours.” 

Both men made faces at his chosen name, but Draco ignored them and strode toward the building. Before he reached the door, he smoothly passed through a barrier. He recognized the spell to be similar to the one on the Manor. Anyone with the right key, or pin, in this case, could pass through unencumbered. Those without could walk the perimeter for days and see no entrance. Draco was instantly inside a subtly decadent room, appointed with refined, understated art. It was a sign of status. Nothing was gaudy or ostentatious, just fine well-chosen pieces and furnishings. He privately upgraded his opinion of the place. A woman in a fitted gray business suit motioned for him to sit at a polished mahogany table. She had blue eyes with iron-gray hair, which she was too young to have earned by time alone. She had it wrapped into a chignon. A tasteful red ribbon rested around her neck, and upon her feet were the eponymous cherry red slippers. Well, they were high heeled shoes, but the sentiment was apparent. 

“How may we be of service, Mr. Socrates,” she said with a pleasant smile. 

“I’d like a room with a desk, a chair, and a lamp. I want to be alerted after 2 hours and 45 minutes have passed. Otherwise, it is my fondest wish _not_ to be disturbed.” 

“Oh, sir, we can’t provide a room without a liaison. There is a hotel just down the alleyway with rooms if that is your wish.” Draco sighed. Well, he could get a girl and ask her to sit out of the way while he read next week’s charts, but he would never be able to concentrate like that. He could leave and go to the pub, waiting for his friends there. But the work would still be unfinished, and they would know he had fled like a second-year Hufflepuff. The hotel was an absolute no. Loosening his shoulders, he made another quick decision. He would try this once and prove he had no use for it. 

“Alright, Ms….”, he gestured at her politely. 

“Carri,” she supplied. 

“Ms. Carri, I’d like to procure the services of one of your liaisons for three hours or so. Please know that I expect absolute discretion.”

“Certainly, Mr. Socrates,” she flicked her wand bringing up the contract he previously signed. “This is iron-clad.” He knew that. One of his businesses had monetized contract making with nasty consequences for breaking the stated terms. This one included a semi-permanent disfigurement. “Now, you’ve listed a few preferences here, but is there anything else before we move along? Special requests?” 

“This is strictly off-record and not to be written or recorded anywhere.” She nodded in agreement. “I would like to try light bondage. I have had some experience during a past relationship, but I would like to try it here. I assume you have specialists.” He had never told anyone about Pansy’s proclivity for knots, nor that he had so thoroughly enjoyed it. Not for the first time, he wondered if she would have been a better choice for his spouse. Alas, her reputation was tarnished. His mother would not have approved. 

“Very well, Mr. Socrates, anything else? Preference of sex?” She flicked her wrist a few times. 

“I prefer women,” Draco thought for a few moments. Deciding to distance himself from Astoria, he added, “No blonde hair, please. I will take whoever is the _best_.” 

“We can accommodate those parameters, but that’s not exactly how it works here. Now, house rules. The liaison will set her boundaries, and you have already set your own. However, if you so choose, you may change your preferences with your safeword, followed by ‘I request a rule change.’ Our house uses a confounding facepaint. It looks like a mask to you, but you won’t be able to take it off.” She continued to flick her wand. “Stand, please.” Confused, Draco stood and walked to the woman waving him over. His moniker flashed in front of him. Several tinkling bells sounded, and the woman glanced at the scroll in her hand. “Now, you’ll need to say your safeword.” 

“Hemlock,” he said. “What’s going on?” 

“Your most appropriate matches are screening you,” she smiled. 

“What?” 

“My co-workers and I have first right of refusal. Once we say yes, you may choose from us.” 

“Hmmm.” He was beginning to regret his decision. He could be nursing a fine fairy wine or strong fire-whiskey instead of being judged by women he couldn't see. 

“There are four women who would like to keep you company today,” Carrie handed him four scrolled pages. “You may request any one of them, or for a small fee, any two so long as her profile indicates ‘plays well with others’. You may also request me. I do play quite well with others, but I'm afraid dominance is not my preference.” A lower bell rang, and a new scroll appeared in her hand. The woman arched an eyebrow and glanced from the scroll to the wizard and back down. 

“Something wrong, Ms. Carri?” Draco was scanning the profiles and becoming more frustrated by the process. 

“You have a final option. I wasn’t aware that she had any time for a new client today, as she is generally booked _well_ in advance, and she is _very_ discerning.” She extended the scroll to Draco, but he waved it away. 

“No need. I would like her.” 

She hesitated. A look of concern swept across her face and vanished just as quickly. “As you like, sir. Follow me.” 

As they walked down the hallway, a few women and men passed with telltale facepaint disguising their faces. Though he could not make out small details, he saw shapes and sizes to fit any taste. Each had the red ribbon at the base of their throats and red shoes in various shades and styles. Each smiled pleasantly, hurrying along with business to attend. 

Carri led him down a small set of steps to a door set deeply into the wall of a private hall. “The liaison you have chosen goes by the moniker The Coyote. However, you will call her Mistress unless permitted to do otherwise.” 

“Mistress? How predictable,” he rolled his shoulders and placed his hand on the door. 

The older woman placed a hand gently on his arm. “She’s never predictable. Remember, if you wish to stop playing, a single safeword. If you wish to exit, repeat your safe word three times. In the case of gags, a concentrated thought will trigger the magic. Do you understand?” 

Draco stiffened a bit. “I have no interest in real injury. I will choose someone else if that is common.” 

“No, no, she takes care of her charges. She’s one of our more gentle dominants. But I sense special circumstances.” With that, she turned and retreated up the stairs. 

_Every new step makes this seem like a worse idea than before,_ Draco thought, but he pushed the door anyway. 


	2. One thing only I know...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet The Coyote.

The door did not open. Instead, he passed through it like mist. There was an expanse of forest within a small covered structure, which could be classified as an elaborate pavilion in front of him. The overhang sheltered a simple, comfortable-looking bed, a plush couch that his mother would have called a _chaise longue_ , and a small table with two chairs. The table was set with tea, and a woman sat on one of the chairs. 

The woman’s profile was all the wizard could see, her face turned slightly toward the table, away from him. She wore an emerald green robe, and her posture was straight and elegant, showing off her delicate neck as it craned artfully. The green robe parted enough to reveal a semi-sheer dress beneath with a slit up to her hip. Her legs were long and tanned and toned, crossing delicately at her ankles. She, too, wore red shoes, but her boots were short in a dark crimson and far more practical than Cassie’s stilettos. However, no red collar adorned her neck. 

Draco felt his heartbeat quicken and lust sprang to life in his veins in ways he hadn’t experienced in years. Though it was true Astoria had not been in love with him nor he with her, he still felt a sense of duty and obligation until the divorce. Malfoy men did not break marriage vows. It was one thing the Mark, the War, and everything that came after it had clarified for him. Family meant everything. One of the few things he still admired about his father was how devoted he was to his mother. Astoria had no such ideals. The divorce came with Draco’s stipulation that she did not marry her current paramour for a year _and_ that Scorpius remain with him as primary custodian. He hadn’t had a woman in his bed in over two years. 

He noted that the woman's dark hair was swept into intricate braids that flowed down her back. She stirred her tea; crimson tipped fingers gently cradled the delicate spoon. He didn’t notice when she turned her face to him, only that she was suddenly looking at him with large dark eyes. Her painted mask was distinctly vulpine, covering everything from her nose upward. Her lips were a red sickle. 

“Do come in. Take tea with me if you please, Socrates.” She waved her elegant hand toward the other chair. 

Draco walked to the small table, passing close enough to smell her light floral perfume. He sat carefully and took up the teacup. It was a deep, potent blend perfectly balanced with sweet honey. She smiled at the look of pleasure on his face. 

“Is tea part of the package?” He smirked at her. 

She tilted her head, enhancing the canine impression her mask gave. “The tea is for pleasantries. I would like to know you more unless you prefer instant gratification. One of my colleagues might help you with that. I recommend Laina. She is perfectly succinct.” 

“I don’t mind pleasantries. The tea is more than passable, and the view is enchanting.” He held her eyes and added a little heat. She stared back impassively. “Why ‘Coyote,’ oh Mistress mine?” 

She took a drink of her tea and set the cup on the table before she answered. “I will give you one reason, though there are several. Coyotes are not domesticated. They can play the part for a time, but a true coyote will not stay for long in confinement.” She leaned forward close enough that her long legs brushed his, “Call me ‘yours’ again, and this meeting will end abruptly. You will not find it amusing.” Her tone sent shivers up his spine and blood to places he had been trying to avoid. “Why ‘Socrates’? Why not some god, like your friends? Or a devil or demon as others do?” 

“The simplest answer is that I was reading one of his treatises when the order came through to choose a name.” He shrugged. 

“The more complex answer?” She asked, still close to him. 

“I admire philosophers more than gods and mythic heroes.” She touched his arm, and though his robe covered it, there was a thrum of electricity. 

“Why?” 

“Because they were men who thought deeply and tried to make sense of the world,” her hand wandered to the collar of his robe. “Gods, especially Greek ones, seemed to be entirely unconcerned with mortal problems. Heroes only cared insomuch as it benefited the people around them. Philosophers were concerned with the bigger picture.” She began to unbutton the line of silk fasteners down his front. She grazed her fingers along his newly exposed throat as she did. He didn’t stifle the soft moan at the contact of her smooth skin. 

“And a muggle philosopher is who you chose rather than a proper wizard, like Herodonius?” She made it to his chest and ran a fingernail across his pectoral muscle, drawing a gasp. But he put a hand over hers. 

“I won’t hear that kind of talk. It’s on my list. Socrates was a great man, whether or not he was magical.” Her small mysterious smile blossomed into a real full smile, and he felt he had passed some test. 

“Yes, you’ll do. Alright.” She turned and vanished the tea and cups without a wand. Draco raised an eyebrow. Whoever she was, she was talented. And tall, he noted as she rose and took his hand. Not as tall as he but at least 5’9” without the added height of heels. As she moved, Draco appreciated her form. Her legs in motion were quickly becoming his favorite sight. The swell of her breasts and flare of her hips were tactically displayed - not on full view, just enough for seduction. 

“Now,” she guided him to the chaise and seated herself next to him. “Tell me how much experience you’ve had with bondage and dominance.” She sat next to him but far enough apart that no part of her body was touching his except her hand, which drew light circles over his knuckles. 

“I…” he tried to refocus. “I had a relationship with a girl before I was married. She liked to take control, tie me up. I hadn’t thought about it much in a long while, but I enjoyed it.” 

“And your wife doesn’t enjoy these pursuits?” She moved her hand to his knee, and Draco’s body immediately reacted in the affirmative. 

“My former wife did not have any desire for dominance, Mistress.” He felt his eyes flutter shut. He couldn’t decide if he was starved for physical attention or if she was that intoxicating. It was just a hand on his knee. Why was he reacting like a 14-year-old boy with a crush? 

“And when your friends brought you here after your divorce, you thought you might try something old?” Draco nodded. “Alright, then. What exactly did you like about being tied up? Did she punish you, too?” She moved her hand to his buttons and began unfastening from the bottom as she had previously from the top. 

“I… I’m not completely sure. At the time, I believed it was a kink, a release. She never hit me if that is what you mean by punishment.”

“What do you believe now?” She ran her hand deftly across his erection on her inexorable mission to unbutton his outer robe. He hissed, his body twitching involuntarily.”Mmm, exquisitely sensitive, pet.” 

He panted, “Control. I… need to… have control in… everything I do. Except this.” 

“Self-awareness. You surprise me again. Perhaps you _do_ know Socrates. There are _other_ forms of punishment.” She purred into his ear. She had dispensed with his robe and begun work on his button-up undershirt. “Tell me something else, my philosopher. Were you faithful to your wife?” 

His mouth formed a thin line, and his eyes opened enough to give her a subtle glare. “I was.” 

“I believe you.” She stood, moving in front of him. “And what’s more, I believe I like you.” She fixed him with an enchanting smile. “Shall we begin?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Please leave a comment or a Kudo if the mood strikes.


	3. ...is that I know nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco gets his first taste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is *ahem* where it gets seriously smutty. Please turn back if this is not your thing!

She fixed him with an enchanting smile. “Shall we begin?” 

At the nod of his head, she peeled his robe and undershirt down his arms, discarding them on the floor. She hooked her long fingers around the waistband of his trousers and pants, smoothly removing them, along with his socks and shoes somehow. He was abruptly naked and fully erect on her chaise longue. It would have been utterly ridiculous if her dark eyes hadn’t been exploring his body. Then she dropped her green robe, revealing silken strips of fabric wrapped around her arms. 

“You have one object this evening, darling,” the fabric around her arms began swirling to life with magic. “Do not release until I tell you to do so.” 

Draco inhaled through his teeth. He marshaled his will to unclench his jaw. “I...will try… Mistress.” 

The strands of silk slid across his skin, pinning his arms and pulling them upward at an uncomfortable but not quite painful angle. Meanwhile, his legs were held firmly apart and still. Every nerve screamed to attention. Feeling flooded his veins, and all he wanted to do, all he  _ could  _ do was ride the sensation -- the wave of emotion. 

And then she touched him. It was like lightning in a lullaby. Soothing and electric. He vaguely registered that his eyes were closed. Some sane part of him clung to his mandate. He tugged on the silks holding his arms hard enough to cause real pain. He clung to that pain and focused on keeping his climax at bay. Her nails bit, and her tongue eased the pain. He cried out, arching his body into hers, feeling the taut skin of her thighs straddling his legs. He wanted to see her against his body, her lips following the punishing path her fingernails forged. But he knew there was no way he could contain himself if he did that. So he felt instead as she drew a map of his body. At the jut of his hip, she nipped him so forcefully he was sure she had drawn blood. Mercifully she left his hypersensitive cock untouched, pulsing with every heartbeat. 

He was shaking and sweating when she reached his neck with her supple lips once more. “Merlin, please, Mistress, ahh,” she bit his earlobe and hummed acknowledgment, “I’m trying but… shit… it’s so much.” 

When she replied, her voice was dark and lust-filled. “How long has it been since someone touched you, _Pistós_? _Fidelius_? How long since that pretty cock filled someone? How long since you touched someone else, _Treue_?” His arousal was so full it hurt. He blinked tears. He attended her words by the barest of margins. 

“Two and a half years, Mistress,” now her fingernails were gentle, brushing across his chest. 

“I want to relieve your suffering, Fídi,” her smooth thigh grazed his sensitive shaft causing him to arch and buck, “but I am not done with you yet.” The silks unwound from his limbs and shifted him gently to a supine position, and bound him again with his hands above his head on the elevated part of the chaise. “So, I’ll need to give you a distraction.” She ran her soft hands up his arms. “Fortunately for you, I’m feeling very generous. I want to keep your brain and your tongue busy. Do you think you are up for the challenge, sweet Socrates?” 

He opened his eyes. She was settling her weight on his chest. She was completely bare, naked, and brilliant above him. He felt the soft short thatch of hair between her legs against his skin and his mouth watered. 

“I will try, Mistress,” his voice was more resonant, unfamiliar to his ears. “Teach me how?” 

Smiling, she worked her way over his torso, “Wise to ask questions. If I didn’t know you for a snake, I’d suspect an eagle.” 

Draco trained his face into a passive stare, “And  _ how _ do you know that?” 

“Perhaps I deduced from the subtle cleverness of your glamour paired with the fine cut of your robes. With the calluses from Quidditch and the poker face you are giving me right now, that might give you away,” she flexed her thighs again, and he felt her slickness against his chest. “But if you want the truth, lovely philosopher,” she ground herself into him, “the one who calls himself ‘Adonis’ is a well-known snake,” she arched her back, thrusting lovely round tits a bit closer to his mouth. He subconsciously licked his lips. “He even has a tattoo of a snake wound around a very particular part of his body. He paid extra once to be in my bed. Alas, it was simply a lark for him. He thought he could change the rules.” 

“So, he is a snake. That does not make me one,” he said. He wanted to sound defiant, but his voice was shaking with the effort of keeping his cock in check. 

Her laugh was deep and rich, “Doesn’t it? Adonis is a young buck, and so are you. ‘Old friends’ are school friends. He can be a bit free with his words when he believes himself to be untouchable. That’s one of the reasons he will never be allowed to do what I am about to teach you to do.” 

He could smell her cunt now, musky and sweet. Her knees rested on either side of his head, and she leaned on the crest of his chest. His mask cracked and fell away. He begged her again, “Please, teach me.” 

“Yes,” she hissed. “Here is your first lesson. Take a page from your namesake. Be concerned with the here and now. Forget what you think you know. Follow my lead. React.” With that, she gently lowered herself to his mouth. He explored her with his tongue, and she rewarded him with sighs. He allowed himself to savor, slowly mapping her most intimate area as she had mapped his body earlier. She writhed above him when he circled her clit. She moaned when he thrust his tongue within her. He followed her responses, layering on the guide he’d just made of her. He watched as she began to grind into him and play with her nipples. He summoned a bit of his magic and maintained a rolling pressure on her sensitive nub while his tongue ravished her. The woman’s pace quickened. Her cries became loud and laced with “Yes, there!” and “Just like that, clever boy.” He commanded his body to obey, feeling her heartbeat with his tongue. Her walls quivered, and suddenly she came in a glorious wash of curses and slickness. Draco released the pressure on her clit and allowed her to ride out her high. 

After she stilled, glistening and panting, she smiled down at him. “I am pleased with you, pet.” She moved back to his chest, then ran her hand through her dripping center. She reached backward, bowing her back and displaying her lovely body to his keen eyes. He had a long moment to appreciate her shape before her wet hand closed around his cock, and his world went white. 

“Let me bring you, darling,” her glorious words were the last piece of reality he clung to before racing madly over the edge. He was vaguely aware that he was crying out, bucking his hips into her hand. He rode the blissful wave of the best climax of his life for several long minutes. That felt foolish to say as she only touched his cock with her hands, but it was true. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Pistós", "Fidelius", "Fídi" and "Treue" are all words for a faithful or loyal one. If you like the story please comment or kudo!


	4. To find yourself...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which aftercare is important and unintentionally revealing.

When he recovered, Draco was no longer bound. She had moved his body upward on the furniture, and he reclined in a seated position. The woman known as The Coyote was sitting next to him in her green silk robe, dipping a cloth in clean, fragrant water. He watched as she ran the cloth over his reddened right arm, striped with patterns left by the Coyote’s silks. The color dulled and then disappeared. She looked up at him. 

“How do your shoulders feel?” 

He flexed the muscles around the joint and winced slightly. “I’ll live, I believe,” he grimly smiled. “I’ve had much worse from less pleasurable activities.” 

She rose and wedged herself behind him, placing her palms against the blade and joint of his twinging shoulder. Her hands warmed with a muttered spell, and he felt the tension slip from the muscles and ligaments. She continued to alternate between washing and warming his bruised shoulders until he was limp and pliant under her touch. She moved her strong, soft hands to his left bicep, where several light scratches stood out, an angry red against his pale skin. The steady ballet of her hands erased them in moments. He breathed deeply, relaxing into her care. It had been years since he allowed anyone to behave so intimately with him. To care for him, to care about him. It was a lulling and intoxicating feeling to which he yielded helplessly. He needed this perhaps more than the release she’d so recently granted him. He permitted her to lay his head back against her shoulder, leaning against her soft body. Her strong arms circled his chest, allowing her hands to continue their work along his front. Her smooth, long legs slid along his sides, drawing him deeper into her comforting cradle. He hummed in contentment as she worked. He began to drift mentally, picking out an appropriate gift of thanks for Blaise. He’d never admit his vexing friend had been right, but a nice present would say enough. 

Draco almost missed the sharp intake of air from his Mistress as the scented water bathed his chest. Disoriented, he canted his head upward to see her face. She was looking down at his chest with wide eyes. Confused, he followed her gaze. The two scars he had so carefully glamoured this morning were visible and bared before her. One from a boy he had imagined his rival, one from a man he imagined loved him. A glance to his left arm showed the Dark Mark still covered, much to his relief. 

He immediately tensed, “Hemlock,” he said through gritted teeth. She removed her hands but stayed where she was. Likewise, he did not move, trying to gather his thoughts and plan his graceful exit. 

“I understand the cost of war better than most, my philosopher,” she said. “Let me care for you.” He battled within himself, but he was still cuddled into her warmth. He nodded and lay his head back against her. Her lovely hands began at the upper left of his chest, running the fabric over the puckered scarred part of his torso. 

“They cannot be healed,” it was a whisper, but she heard him. 

“I know.” She ran her finger down the long diagonal scar the sainted Potter had given him at the wizened age of 16. “This one looks to be a particularly nasty curse.” She moved to the middle of his torso’s right side, gently sliding her hand on the opposite downward diagonal. “This was a cursed weapon.” Draco shivered, remembering his father’s maddened eyes as he nearly gutted his only son and heir at the Dark Lord's bidding. 

“You seem familiar with the Dark Arts,” he said. Although he tried, he had difficulty returning to his previous calm state. She nodded and moved away from the ugly marks. 

“I had cause to familiarize myself during the war,” she began to move to the bite mark he could now see in bold outline on his right hip. He gently closed his hand over hers.

“Would you leave that one? I’d like… I want a memento.” She tilted her head and kissed him just behind his ear. 

“Of course, pet,” he left his hand over hers, and she didn’t protest, leaving it resting against his lower abdomen, rising and falling with every breath. “I… I apologize for the disillusionment. It was an unexpected side effect of a new tincture.” 

“Twice purified water with Caldelily?” He looked up at her and found a brilliant smile. “Did you add the pine for the scent alone?” 

“It reduces inflammation,” she ran her nose down his neck, inhaling, “and it smells wonderful.” 

He smiled. “Did you learn that during the war, too, Mistress?” 

“No… well, not entirely. Before the war, I wanted to be a healer,” her unencumbered hand gently ran her nails across the plains of his chest. “But, I did get better at improvising during the war.” 

“You wanted to be, but you chose a different path?” He was very gradually relaxing again. 

She went still behind him. “In a manner of speaking. Healing magic takes a pure soul. I don’t believe I fit that description anymore. I left it to the clean among us and blessed them for it. Our time is nearly up, pet.” 

“May I… I would very much like to see you again, Mistress,” he kept his back to her but ran his hand gently down the skin of her outer thigh. 

She pressed herself against him grazing his shoulder with her teeth. “Why,” she asked, not indicating her willingness. “You've had your erotic experience and relived your youth. Why come back to me, my philosopher?” 

Everything with The Coyote so far had been a challenge, so he thought for a moment before replying. “Because I want to learn how to please you, Mistress. Because you made me feel safe.” 

She went still, and he could feel her breath over his ear. Finally, she released a small growl and said, “Come here in three weeks at 8 in the evening. Make no plans for the night and leave your friends at home.” 

He smiled to himself. "Yes, Mistress." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I've diverted from canon, I inserted my own imaginings around Draco's war experience. I see Lucius as a sycophantic zealot, and someone like that would do almost anything to stay in the good grace of their master. He might even sacrifice his son. 
> 
> Also, aftercare is IMPORTANT.


	5. ...Think for yourself.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco questions his experience at the Red Slipper Room. He comes back for a second try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little piece of fluff keeps growing. I have an ending but it is just taking longer to get there and I'm having too much fun with it. This is un-beta-ed and all mistakes are mine. I don't own most of these characters. I'm just having a bit of fun!

Draco spent much of the ensuing weeks wholly devoted to his work during the day and convincing himself that The Red Slipper Room had been enhanced in his memory at night. She couldn’t have been that lovely, and it could not have felt as good as his recollection. It must have been his celibate status. Or perhaps some arousal-boosting aerosolized potion. The scion of two ancient noble houses would not be so desperate as to climax begging for the touch of a courtesan's hand. But he had dreams about it. Her dark eyes and red smile teased him. The weight of her heavy braid dragged down his chest as her teeth nipped him. 

By the second week, he caved to Pansy’s incessant nagging to set him up with a pretty French socialite she met while  _ convalescing  _ in  Le Baracés two years ago. 

“Oh, Draco, darling,” she crowed. She would have bounced if it were at all socially acceptable. “You will simply  _ adore _ Perrette! She’s the perfect distraction from this little unpleasantness.” He grimaced at the wording.  _ Unpleasantness _ is what his mother had called his divorce.  _ The Unpleasantness _ is what she labeled the whole time The Dark Lord had inhabited the family manor for a year as if a turn or phrase could lessen the horror and humiliation of that time. 

Pansy hadn’t been entirely wrong. Perrette was effervescent and witty. She kept the conversation racing without allowing it to tread too deeply. The French witch was also undeniably attractive, which didn’t hurt. Dark, straight hair fell in shiny waterfalls to the middle of her back, framing large green eyes and a full mouth. She blushed just enough at his compliments to show genuine interest in him. When they discussed the subject of travel (the safest of permissible topics for a first date), she entertained him with a raucous story of being stranded in a muggle town somewhere in the American Southwest after an unfortunate portkey mishap. She laughed and gasped in all the appropriate places at his tale of inappropriate use of muggle artifacts in Rome years ago. She invited him to her flat after dinner. The sex was athletic, vigorous, and perfectly empty -- ideal for rebounds and new starts. 

He still dreamed of The Coyote. Even after an exuberant encore with Perette the next week, he couldn’t shake the desire to return to The Red Slipper Room. So he stood in the same, finely appointed waiting room on Saturday three weeks to the day after his initial visit. As a precaution, he had equipped a Disillusiary ring from the family vault. In practice, he was resistant to charms and enchantments which affected his mood and emotional state. No undue influence would be involved tonight. He would see if The Coyote was as  _ enchanting _ tonight as she had been on his first visit. 

Carri smiled at him with a little sauciness. “My goodness, Sir Socrates, I had begun to believe we did not impress you.” She straightened her well-tailored, charcoal grey suit jacket. “Most come back within the week or never darken our doors again.” 

“You may find that I am unusual in several ways,” he placed a delicate quill on her sparse desk that matched the one resting in her inkwell. “A gift for your excellence in our last encounter.” 

“Socrates is benevolent indeed. I did very little.” She appeared earnestly pleased by the token. 

“You eased my first time. Good service and extra attention do not go unrewarded in my presence.” He smiled his most diplomatic smile and tipped his head slightly. “Now, I believe I have an appointment.” 

The small woman let her lips turn down slightly, “I was not aware that you…” she stopped and opened her mouth in a surprised “Oh,” checking a list on her desk. “She invited you back?” 

“Yes,” he said simply. “Is that unusual?” 

“Quite,” Carri extended her arm in invitation. “Shall I walk you through?”

He nodded, stepping through to the hallway. “May I ask a question of you while we walk?” 

She resumed the lead, weaving through the maze of halls, passing the myriad of men and women therein. Flashing a Cheshire grin, she nodded. “You can ask, but I don’t promise an answer.” 

“I understand the shoes are a bit of branding, but why the necklaces?” 

“Oh,” she chuckled, “I thought you were going to ask something more scandalous, sir.” She paused, lifting her neck to give him a better view of both the necklace and the assets below it. “This is our contract with the house. It affords us protection and rights. It holds us to the rules of the house and connects us directly with help should we need it.” 

They arrived at the unassuming entrance. “The Coyote doesn’t wear one.” 

The woman turned to leave, smiling over her shoulder. “No, she does not.” 

And she was gone. 

Draco didn't bother with the doorknob this time. He walked through the illusion and into the idyllic Sylvan scene. This time it was dusk, and the pinkish-orange setting sun scattered light into shadow. A bird called, and another answered before a fox’s sharp yip brought down a brief silence. His eyes drawn upward into the slowly purpling evening sky, Draco wondered if he would be more impressed if this were an illusion or incredibly subtle transportation magic. Either way, this was world-class spell-crafting. He hadn't taken the time to appreciate it before now. 

Draco unsheathed his wand and probed gently for the magic. He found an exceptionally intricate spell with elements of time locks and dimensional shifts paired with a perpetuity charm. The spell was probably not strictly legal by Ministry code, but it was wondrous. At the very least, it was creating a pocket dimension projection of another place. It seemed to allow for time-reversal as well, so she could erase rainy days with a flick of the wrist if the witch wished -- a personal slice of paradise. He pressed the boundaries of the enchantment further, searching for a maker’s mark. He knew a gold mine when he saw one. This kind of specialty spellwork would fill another Gringotts vault. He also speculated that his mother might like her Loire gardens a bit closer to home. 

“I didn’t sign it,” The Coyote said. Reflexively Draco twisted into a defensive stance, flicking his wand free from its arm holster and raising it between himself and danger. Before he could plant his feet, the woman grabbed his casting arm, leveraged him over her leg to the ground, pinned him with a knee, and held her wand to his neck. 

A part of Draco knew that this situation was an unfortunate mistake. The part of him that was in charge did not care. The air became heavy, and he felt like he was breathing underwater. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Over the thrum, he heard her voice but couldn’t make out her words. It didn’t seem to matter as his body followed her commands, eyes snapping open and lungs expanding. 

“That’s it, pet,” he focused on her agate-colored eyes as she crooned to him. “Just breathe for me. You are safe. I’ve got you.” 

Draco’s body began to shake as the unused adrenaline fired his muscles randomly. He read about it once, hoping that understanding what was happening might make it less terrifying and humiliating. It hadn’t. 

“Your combat skills and spellwork are intricate for a sex worker,” he said, failing to keep the quaver from his voice. 

“Your panic attacks are rather intense for a  _ businessman _ ,” she countered. She ignored the invitation to conflict. “Are you feeling better?” 

“Yes,” he threw his arm over his face. “I didn’t mean to draw on you. I just…” 

“Reflexes,” the woman muttered. “It’s hard to unlearn things that saved your life.” She let out a long breath and settled next to him. “I’m sorry I startled you,” he heard the smile creep back into her voice, “and disarmed you. And threw you on the ground.” Her silken laugh rolled over him. “Who taught you physical combat? They neglected a few things.” 

Draco peeked from under his arm. “A few tried. I’m generally terrible at combat. You need a complex potion that takes 48 hours of delicate brewing and will be ruined by a single atmospheric shift? I’m your man. You need complicated charms or wards that are finicky as hell? Call me up.” He shuddered once more, “but don’t ask me to cast under pressure. Don’t ask me for offensive spells.” 

__ He watched the woman beside him stretch and settle next to him. She was wearing a gown of deepest red with dark embroidery artfully decorating her form. Her hair was pulled back into a loose knot with rebellious little curls framing her delicate features. For the first time, he wished he could see past the paint. 

“I thought I would be terrible at it,” she raised her hands to his chest, running her short-trimmed fingernails over the front lapels of his robe. “I found it frighteningly easy. Clarity is a gift. Every time I drew my wand in battle the world narrowed to survival. It is an extremely carnal thing.”

“I suppose that explains how I ended up at your feet again, Mistress,” he said. Her eyes immediately dilated and her posture changed subtly. It was lighting a match.

“Yes, my lovely philosopher. I have such plans for you tonight,” she curled herself against Draco, running her nose along his neck to his ear. “Such a shame we will need to take care of discipline first.” 

“Discipline, Mistress?” He averted his eyes like a chastised child, though his body became heated at her words. 

“You drew your wand in anger and aimed it carelessly,” shame flooded him. She was right. He  _ had _ been irresponsible. Her leg slid over his midsection and she sat on top of him.  “Pensez-vous que je suis injuste, mon fidèle?” 

“Non, maîtresse, j'ai mérité votre colère,” the French flew from his lips like second nature because it was. His father sent him to the French estates early and often and his mother told her best bedtime stories in the language. He watched his mistress’ smile spread as she absorbed this new information. 

“You are full of surprises,” she said. Draco felt desire sweep through his body like heat from a fire. “Shall I teach you to command your fear, mon chéri?” 

He ran his hands up the smooth length of her legs to her hips, pausing there briefly. Then moved his arms up above his head crossing his wrist in unmistakable surrender before holding her eyes and nodding assent. “Teach me, please.” 

His mistress did something he did not expect. She pressed her body flush with his, taking his jaw into a firm grip, her face even with his. Amber tones reflected in her unreadable eyes as she studied him for a long moment. Draco pondered whether a slap or a bite would hurt more. Instead, she pulled his mouth to hers in a bruising kiss. It was quick but left him panting and lusty for more. She broke away with a nip to his lower lip and pushed his head to the side as she growled into his ear, “Strip and get on your knees.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. The next update will be on December 20th. Obviously, the next chapter will be *ahem* earning that rating again. If you enjoy this little story, I would love a comment or a kudo. Stay safe out there. 
> 
> "Pensez-vous que je suis injuste, mon fidèle" - "Do you think that I am being unjust, Faithful on?"  
> "Non, maîtresse, j'ai mérité votre colère.” - "No, mistress, I have earned your anger."


	6. Know Thyself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco receives a punishment, a reward, and a challenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely people. I apologize for the wait. This chapter is very long, but I didn't want to break it up. I hope you enjoy it.   
> **If you partake in any bondage play, please do so with caution and hopefully an experienced partner. Bindings can cut off circulation and pull muscles/ joints. They can become very dangerous very quickly. Have fun but be careful!**

_ “Strip and get on your knees,” she growled in his ear.  _

Draco emancipated himself from his clothes with shaking hands. A heady mix of nervous anticipation and arousal thrummed through his body as he knelt on the earth. He shifted on the small stones beneath his knees, sitting back on his heels. The Coyote sat on the same chair in which she had taken tea at their last meeting and watched him settle. Her sharp eyes examined him like a puzzle. 

“You didn’t bother to glamour your scars tonight,” she stated. 

“No mistress, you know they are there. It seemed a waste of effort and resources,” he watched her legs shift, the smooth muscles tensing. Gone was the dressing gown, leaving only knickers that resembled boyshorts and what could be called a bra if it covered anything at all. 

“Don’t sit back,  _ to ómorfo fídi mou _ ,” she rose with lethal grace and flashing eyes, holding a silver bar - perhaps a meter long - in her hand. “Up. On your knees. I want your thighs to burn for me,” she said. Draco pushed himself forward and up, ignoring the dull ache from the stones beneath him. His cock was at half-mast and gaining despite the discomfort. “Our safe word is the same as last visit,” she paced closer to him gently placing the cold silver rod under his chin. “You will use it if you feel numb. You will use it if you feel tingling or sharp pain in your hands or feet,” he opened his mouth to reply but found himself a bit distracted by her proximity. Her dark eyes focused on his again and she showed her teeth in a grimace. “You will reply with ‘Yes, Mistress,” or nod if you are unable to speak.” 

With a slight shake of his head, he said, “Yes, mistress.” 

“Good,” she said, still holding his gaze. She slipped the silver rod behind his back and pressed it to his skin. It was frigid. Draco gasped, bolting upright and arching away from the bite of the metal. “Now, darling, that is what you will feel when you misstep.” She muttered a business-like  _ wingardium leviosa  _ to suspend the rod in place. Something about her spellcraft sparked his memory but he couldn’t place it. She was inches from his body and every nerve begged for her touch while shying from the freezing bar of metal. 

“What am I expected to do, Mistress?” She smiled brilliantly at his question. 

“It is very simple, my lovely philosopher,” her lips brushed his earlobe. “Use your eyes,” she ran her hands down his arms, light calluses on her fingertips scratching just enough to send shivers through his spine and straight to his cock. She took both his wrists and raised them above his head. The motion put her breasts tantalizingly close to his mouth and his lips parted in want. He felt the rope rasping against his forearms drawing his eyes upward. Transfixed he watched as The Coyote manipulated the fibrous material into intricate ties and knots binding his upper arms together. “Now,” she flicked the remainder of the rope into the air, where it suspended itself, “your habit is to draw first and assess second.” 

She paused and he rushed out a “Yes, that’s true mistress.” 

“This is a dangerous thing to do,” she took several paces around him laying hands here and there on his body. “You are more likely to injure an ally than defend yourself that way.” 

Before he thought his words left his mouth, “Allies are thin on the ground in my experience, Mistress.” He snapped his mouth shut, half afraid she would stop the game, half afraid she wouldn’t. 

“Then be careful with the ones you have,” she paused checking the ropes on his left arm, “and choose better ones.” Seemingly satisfied, she stepped in front of him. She wielded an ivy wand with spiral detailing that looked naggingly familiar. With it, she summoned two glowing vaguely human-shaped images. One glowed indigo, the other was an orange-gold. “The indigo is your ally, the orange is your foe. Should your hand move to strike your ally, you will be punished. Should your hand fail to move to strike your enemy, you will be punished.” She stroked his chest with her blunt nails. “Succeed and I will reward you well in the end.” 

His breathing increased as he nodded his head in assent. She began the assault without warning, the orange figure advancing in his peripheral vision. As she bade he twitched his right hand and the thing balked and fluttered to his left. A half-second later his hand twitched again but the indigo light flowed into his vision and the cold rod touched his back as the thing emitted a wounded scream. 

“You’ll need to do better,  _ mon fidèle _ ,” she said with slight amusement. She wasn’t visible to him but it sparked a competitive urge. He performed flawlessly for the next ten passes. “Well done, then,” she said excitedly. His pride swelled along with his arousal, as something pricked at his memory again. Her hand reached from behind him and stroked his cock. He lost his mind momentarily, tensing both hands and receiving the rod’s frigid bite for his trouble. Then he missed the orange mass again with a second shock of cold. 

“Focus, my snake,” he pulled on his resolve and fended off several more passes, as her hand slowly drove him mad. “Improving. I’m impressed.”

She ceased her ministrations and moved into his vision. “Sweet philosopher,” she ran her hands through his hair, charmed to be far darker than his natural color, “are you aching for me?” 

“Merlin, yes,” was his answer, hissed through clenched teeth. 

“Would you like to touch me,  _ mon fidèle _ ?” He lost words but moaned with a nod of his head. 

“Terrible shame that your hands are bound. What would you use to touch me?” Her words were breathier than before and her nipples pressed prominent against the sheer fabric of her crimson bra. The unconquerable creature that was ego practically purred with the knowledge that he had done that to her. 

“My mouth, Mistress,” he said, “please let me use my mouth on your incredible tits.” 

She nodded, flushed dark in the fading light. Stepping toward him she pulled his lips toward her chest. At first, he licked her through the delicate fabric, relishing the increase of her sighs. He used his teeth to pull her cup down and feel her bare breast against his tongue. 

Just as she arched into his willing mouth, he saw it from the corner of his eye. No time to reason through his actions, he twisted himself between the threat and his mistress, accepting the cold consequence of movement against the enchanted ropes shifting swiftly on his knees, which cried out in protest. Simultaneously, he cast a spell he had never used wordlessly and a blue shield raised itself in a semicircle around his body. The shadowy figure of both targets collided with Draco’s _protego_ spell and dissipated like smoke.  
The sharp chill of the silver rod disappeared with a _tink-thud_ and his mistress looked up with fire in her brown eyes. “Outstanding, Mr. Socrates. No offensive spells needed at all. Protective aren’t you, pet?”

“I suppose I am,” little bits of adrenaline zipping through his system like an electric current. Then he lost his balance and tipped to the side. Though he struggled to catch himself his legs wouldn’t respond correctly. He noticed for the first time how much they burned with the strain of holding his body upright at an odd angle for the better part of an hour. The suspended rope halted his descent, stretching his torso into a bow and relieving the tension on his exhausted legs. 

“What a delectable sight you make,” she said running both hands up his sides. “Tell me, darling,” she rose out of his vision, “what do you feel?” 

On the tips of his fingers, he felt her warm breath tickle over his skin. “I feel the breath of a goddess.” She huffed a soft laugh and ran her sultry little tongue over his fingers before closing her mouth over his index finger to the second joint and sucking. 

His exhaustion fled like morning mist as cock proclaimed renewed interest in his current situation. A moan escaped his lips as his breathing heightened again. 

"Gods above and below," he said, attempting to shift his body to see her. 

“I think you’ve earned your reward, my Socrates,” she said, grazing her nails down his arms and across his chest. “Stand.” 

He struggled for a moment, his body reminding him of past abuses, but managed to haul himself to standing. His hands were still bound but now suspended at chest level. She summoned the lead string and guided him gently to the chaise longue. Pressing him down gently, she pronounced a sticking charm to affix his bound arms above his head.

“I’m going to leave you anchored only here,” she moved her hands over his exposed wrists and over the rope looped around his forearms. She paused, eyes alighting on his reddened skin, her flush deepened and her full lips opened slightly. She moved down his body, breath ghosting across his skin, cool wood of her wand grazing the length of his torso. “And here.” Her hands settled at his hips and she commanded her magic to hold him in place. 

The Coyote pressed her hips to his, the hot length of his erection trapped between his body and the silk of her undergarment and velvety skin. Draco tried desperately to return the motion and rock into her but found himself immobile. 

“Maintenant,” she panted into his ear, “tu me laisse m’amuser.” She placed wet kisses along his neck. His body danced under her touch as much as his anchored state would allow. 

“Please, mistress,” his voice sounded as desperate as he felt. 

“En français, s'il vous plaît, mon savant,” her painted lips paused over the tip of his cock. Her eyes locked with his, daring him to say the words, to watch the act. 

“Vous me touchez, s'il vous plaît, maîtresse,” he didn’t recognize his own voice anymore. 

“Comme ça?” She ran a single finger up his inner thigh with a wicked look. 

“No,” he groaned with the sensation so close to right, but not quite. 

“No? Comme ça?” she smiled at him then ran her tongue from the prominence of his hip downward. 

“Noms des dieux,” the sight of her teasing him was almost too much. “Ayez pitié de moi!” 

Her eyes fixed on his as she slowly settled between his legs and ran her tongue languidly from the base of his cock to the tip. Every nerve crackled and his hands twitched to bury themselves in her hair. He didn’t bother to cut off the shameless moan of pleasure. Her crimson lips turned upward with a devilish smile and without a word she buried him in the fire of her mouth. 

Draco was burning, set alight by her heat, the fire fanned by her brimstone eyes. If he had not been so handily restrained, he would have made a bid to plant his cock so deep into her that she would never forget the feel of him. He could only writhe under her scorching assault. The way her tongue and lips moved in concert was profane and perfect. She could not manage to take him whole, but she came as close as anyone ever had. As he watched her, he noted the flush of her body and the way her breath came in pants and gasps. 

When she began to undulate her body, subconsciously seeking the friction of intimacy, he shut his eyes as his whole body began to shake. Instantly her motions stopped and the fingernails of her left hand dug into his hip demandingly. With a slurred curse, he forced open his eyes and found her face once more. Her curls were escaping from their restraints and her cheeks were pink with effort and arousal. Her mouth stretched around his cock was the most picturesque thing in the entire world. She hummed approval and resumed her ministrations. He was hanging on by the sparist of margins and that took him to the end of his will. 

He tried to warn her, but all that came from his lips was, “Yes, fuck.” He couldn’t move away, and she simply hummed in approval once again. Just like that, he was spilling himself into her mouth. She never slowed and it seemed an impossibly long high. Unlike the first time, he remembered every touch, every second of ecstasy. He  _ knew  _ to his very core that it had nothing to do with enchantment or clever illusion. This was biology and want and an essential human madness. 

Eventually, Draco lay spent against the chaise. He felt the spell holding him stationary release and the ropes on his wrist unwind. He summoned his energy and opened his eyes to look at the Coyote as she finished the final loops of the rope. He gently lifted his newly liberated hand and placed it on her waist. It felt like a bold move. The Coyote stopped moving and focused on his eyes once more. 

“Let me,” he pleaded with her. “Let me feel you. Let me taste you. Let me bring you pleasure.” 

She hesitated for a moment before allowing him to guide her. The witch straddled him with little encouragement and he began to lavish attention on her spectacular breasts. Within seconds she helped him divest the bra, voicing her approval. She moved against him with increasing desperation. He moved his hand beneath her silk boyshorts and plunged one finger into her heat while he thumbed that little ball of nerves at her apex. He was not slow or gentle, adding second finger moments after the first, then a third. She became more frantic as used everything he learned at his last session to drive her mad. He felt her flutter around his fingers, and he leaned back to watch her unravel. He met her eyes with a challenge, and she rose to the occasion, holding his eyes.  _ Caramel _ . Her eyes were a caramel brown, not just dark. As she came down from her high, she leaned over and gave him a deep kiss. 

Then with a sigh, she rose from his lap and fetched her robe. She made a graceful silhouette against the nighttime forest surrounding the small pavilion. At some point, the sun had finally dipped below the tree line and the stars shimmered into view. Draco wondered how long it had been since he entered her domain. “You should go,” she said quietly. 

Draco sat up with a feeling of dread. “When can I see you again, mistress?” 

Her back still turned to him, she bowed her head. “You can’t, my lovely philosopher.” 

“What?” His heart fell.

“You can’t see me again.” She still didn’t face him. 

“Why?” Draco would have been embarrassed about the distress in his voice under any other circumstances. “What have I done to displease you?” 

She turned at that, “Nothing! That’s not…” She turned and paced toward him. “That’s not why.” 

“Then why?” He tried to stand but his strained legs wobbled and he found himself on his sore knees once again. She said nothing but took a single step toward him leaving her a tantalizing arm’s length from his outstretched arms. “Please, let me see you again, or at least tell me how to earn the privilege.” 

“I know who you are,” she said. The world became unsteady around Draco. “I know how you got those scars. I know you didn’t glamour your eyes today.” She took another step closer and lifted her hand to touch his left forearm. “I know whose mark you bare,” he dropped his arms, drawing in a labored breath. She took another step. “I know whose son you are,” she reached out and ran her strong fingers through his hair. Though he couldn’t feel it, he knew the illusion of his disguise had fallen away. “So if you wanted me again, you would need to know me, too,” she ran a thumb along the plane of his cheek. The panic rose in his chest. She knew too much, and she had too much control. “And I think that might break you.” 

For a moment he simply stared at her with pain and panic. Strangely, he noted the pain reflected back in her eyes. This wasn’t something that she wanted to do. Still, she bent to his ear and whispered, “Run away now, little dragon, before you get burned.”

“Hemlock, hemlock, hemlock,” he let the bitter words pass his lips like poison. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **If you partake in any bondage play, please do so with caution and hopefully an experienced partner. Bindings can cut off circulation and pull muscles/ joints. They can become very dangerous very quickly. Have fun but be careful!** You will notice that Coyote tests Draco throughout to make sure he can still feel his hands.   
> If you enjoy my story, please leave a Kudo or comment. 
> 
> Translations:   
> to ómorfo fídi mou - Greek - My faithful snake  
> Mon fidele - French - My faithful one   
> Maintenant, tu me laisse m’amuser - Now, let me play with you   
> Vous me touchez, s'il vous plaît, maîtresse - Touch me, please mistress  
> Comme ça - Like this?  
> Noms des dieux - In the names of the gods  
> Ayez pitié de moi - Have mercy on me


	7. Illumination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco thinks, regrets, researches, and stumbles across exactly what he wanted. He did want to know... right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stares at the fluffiness of this chapter. Checks her outline, shrugs, and posts.  
> I swear our lovely Coyote will remedy MOST of this next chapter.

Draco hefted the dead weight of a sleeping toddler to his shoulder. Two stone never felt like much in other circumstances, but Scorpius seemed to double in weight when he slept. He was never certain how to proceed with his son. The best framework he possessed was a healthy dose of  _ not that _ when he looked back on much of his childhood. Lately, the solemn little boy had asked to play in his father’s study while Draco worked in the evenings. It seemed a small thing, and he was amenable to anything that made his only child smile. His mother had tutted about impropriety but Draco brushed her off. He had learned a fair amount about Scorpius in a fortnight. His imagination was rich. He was sensitive to everyone’s moods, even the house-elves, and he felt the loss of his mother more than Draco had thought. Though Astoria had been absent in all but body for most of the child’s brief life, Scorpius seemed to mourn her.

Two weeks ago, the boy had pinned Draco with those azure eyes and asked, “Papa, will you leave me, too?” 

It shattered him on a level he was not previously aware existed. He had done the most un-Malfoy thing he could imagine. He gathered the boy into his arms and soothed his tears. “No, my son, never,” he said, the words sounding too bare, too flimsy to shield that which was most precious. 

Since then, on nights when Draco worked past bedtime, Scorpius stayed with him. Typically he fell asleep on the large ottoman in front of the fire cuddled with one plaything or another. Then Draco would carry his son to the nursery and tuck him into bed with what he was sure was all the grace of a beater. Nevertheless, he did it with his own hands. When Scorpius wailed in the middle of the night, as all children did on occasion, it was Draco who caught him up in his arms and hummed an artless tune. 

It was on nights like that his restless mind wandered back to his last night with The Coyote. Two months had passed, and her memory still vexed him. He had made no further dates with  Perrette and accepted no invitation from his mother or her eager group of society ladies. No one was going to compare to  _ her _ . Everything else felt like a facade. 

Awake and contemplative, Draco ran through that last conversation again. He had been too overwhelmed to take in her words at the time. Now, however, he wondered what she meant. Why would knowing  _ her _ break him? In his experience,  _ his _ identity was the problem. Had she already known by that second meeting? 

Over the past weeks, he had carefully curated a list of what he knew of her. Draco felt confident about a few general things. He didn’t believe she was using a glamour beyond the face paint. The tincture on his first visit had not affected her at all. She had been part of the war, and she had combat training. He was reasonably certain she was muggle-born or half-blood. The witch was skilled, but it was difficult to banish upbringing. Muggle swearing was a clear marker and her preference toward standard teapots rather than the self-warming ones, which were the norm among the wizarding community. Certainly, no one in pureblood circles matched her height and coloring. She was well-read. She spoke French, Latin, Greek, and at least a smattering of German. She was a talented caster with an extensive skill set. He was reasonably convinced she'd attended Hogwarts, though he couldn't be certain. Finally, he believed her to be around his age, perhaps a bit younger. He had no certain evidence on that point except that she knew him. 

Then there were the more personal things she knew about him. She knew he bore the Dark Mark and where to find it, but many people knew that. She knew his eye and hair color which at first blush was also something that many people knew. Scorpius was the first Malfoy offspring in four generations not to possess the familial gray eyes, although he did inherit the white-blonde hair. There had been something in the way she'd spoken of his eyes, though, that told him she knew more than the color. Something that implied she knew  _ his _ eyes specifically. The Coyote had known about his scars, too. Not intimately enough to know them on sight the first time, but clearly enough to figure it out. That narrowed the field significantly. Anyone on the Wizengamot would know about the stab wound from his father, though it had been kept from the press. The long slashed scar from Potter was another matter. He could not divine who might know about that one. Professor Snape was long dead and the man had been legendarily tight-lipped. He couldn’t imagine Harry Potter sharing that particular tale over tea and biscuits. She would have had time to research between meetings, of course. That implied again that she certainly knew or strongly suspected his identity before they met again. 

There were also unanswered questions. Why didn’t she wear a necklace like the others? Why hadn’t she signed her spellwork? Why did she think he would break if he knew who she was? Why was he beginning to feel a part of him would fade away if he never knew? 

Perhaps that was a bit dramatic, Draco chastised himself as he finally lay Scorpius down in the nursery bed. He would be there for his son no matter the cost. Fatherhood was, perhaps, the best part of him, even if he stumbled through it one step at a time. Still, other pieces of him had felt a spark of light for the first time in years when  _ she _ looked at him. It was almost like feeling a limb come back to life, only to be unceremoniously amputated. 

Draco regretted leaving. It had taken two weeks to admit that to himself, but it was true. The Red Slipper Room had informed him that The Coyote handled advanced bookings herself. She declined further meetings by proxy and forwarded a list of colleagues that might stand in her stead. It wasn’t easy news to hear. He tried her two top recommendations but found no enjoyment in either. The thrill of being bound was still arousing, but he felt no security or spark with Arachne. He left the session with Mistress Nyx after a mere 30 minutes, feeling certain that dominance of  _ that _ sort was not his pleasure. Then he burned the rest of the list, unwilling to entertain the idea of any further experimenting. 

He wrote a letter that was as much a plea as an apology, but The Red Slipper Room refused to accept delivery on The Coyote’s behalf. When Carrie was persuaded to carry his missive, she returned with sad, resigned eyes. 

“She informed me that you were told all you needed to know at your last meeting,” the woman flushed. “She said if you wanted to see her again, it wouldn’t be here.” Carrie touched the red silk of her necklace and frowned in concentration. “The mistress reminds me that she is as bound by the contract as we all are, even if she doesn’t wear a ribbon.” The witch turned her back to him, “She can’t reveal your secrets any more than you can reveal hers.” 

Draco paused his steps toward his rooms, reviewing that mentally cataloged information. Carrie had said  _ the mistress _ like a title. She had touched the red ribbon around her neck. The very thing The Coyote did not wear. She had done that twice before in his presence. Once when she described their function. Once when she had presented The Coyote as a liaison on his first night. Initially, he thought his mistress may be a freelance employee. However…A new scenario assembled in his mind. An establishment like The Red Slipper Room would not need independent contractors. Further, everyone would need to be signed under the original parchment to bind all parties to the agreements. If she was as bound to the contract as the others were but without the necklace-focus, she likely anchored the magic herself. Reflecting upon the spellwork in her room, the style was similar - elegant with precise layering and interlocking charms. The Coyote was more than a liaison. More pieces of the picture filled themselves in. Her presence at the club appeared infrequent at best, which meant it was not her primary income. The other liaisons seemed to refer to her with deference. Even Carrie had implied there was something different about her that first night. 

He resumed his stride but made for the Owlery rather than his bedroom. The Manor had a bevy of owls at its disposal, and a small Owlery was built beside the stables. The owls preferred their own space to nest and groom and squawk without the presence of their demanding wizards. He could have summoned an elf or pushed the whistle that signaled his personal owl, but the path to the Owlery was an easy one with a fine view of the fountains. Walking helped him think. Since the end of the war, he had walked the sizable grounds of Malfoy Manor hundreds of times. He likely knew his home better than the last four lords combined. 

Now with his mind clear, Draco made a decision. He _ would  _ find her. He must. With a quill and paper, he penned a swift missive to Master Blystone. The old squib handled all his financial needs and was uncommonly clever with money matters. He bid the man devote all of his attention to finding the current primary investors in The Red Slipper Room. It would likely take weeks, but money rarely lied. Every passing moment made him more confident that  _ she _ was at least a financial backer, if not the owner of the establishment. His large eagle owl, Zephyr, ruffled the parchment on the small desk in the owlery. The red-brown owl fluffed her feathers with a  _ chirrup _ and held her leg out patiently. Draco rolled and addressed the letter with a seal before tying it to Zephyr’s leg. The big bird bobbed her head regally and beat her enormous wings twice before flying into the night. 

His first lead covered, he turned to the second idea he had been mulling over. On a clean parchment, he wrote a single sentence. 

_ I request a meeting with a chronomancer. - D. L. Malfoy. _

He addressed it to  _ The Ministry of Magic - Department of Mysteries, Chrominance Division _ . 

_________________________________________________________________________

_ TWO WEEKS LATER _

Draco would have paced or fidgeted were he not  _ a well-bred gentleman _ . Though examining that title, perhaps it was simply a facade. He took a single step toward the window and felt his eye twitch reflexively.  _ Well, so much for that thought _ . He resumed his statue-like existence in the outer chamber of the Department of Mysteries. His assigned representative - Nimue Rothingham - was twenty minutes late, which seemed a touch ironic in the Time Division. He was accustomed to long waits, as it seemed a favored petty punishment of the general public. Make the Death Eater wait. They still wanted his business, of course. They may not want the stain of association with his family, but Malfoy money spent as well as the next galleon. Draco was willing to buy at upmarket prices in bulk to keep doors open for future Malfoys. 

“Mister Malfoy, please follow me,” a small, efficient-looking man with glasses waited to hold the door to the department offices open patiently. As Draco passed through, the man continued, “Excuse us, the whole department was in a meeting. The Head was in a right state about some recent abnormalities and insisted upon a detailed run down. She is a bit of a stickler.” 

“For the rules?” He asked to keep the polite conversation going as the man led him down the stark corridor. 

The man chuckled softly, “For the details.” He stopped at a door with a delicate nameplate that read  **Agent Rothingham** and rapped gently. 

Voices paused in conversation, and a commanding “Enter” sounded from the room’s occupants. The man opened the door and motioned Draco forward; he realized he never asked his name. A quick nod of thanks sufficed, and the man disappeared down the hallway. 

Nimue sat behind a small crowded desk that was meticulously organized. Her hair was brown shot-through with silver streaks, and her eyes a minty green. The other woman stood with her back to him. Dark-brown hair pulled into an officious knot at the base of her skull from which several rebellious curls had escaped.  _ Tall _ , he thought. 

“Ah, Mister Malfoy,” Agent Rothingham said as he stepped into the room. The woman with his back to him subtly tensed. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. This is my Division Head, Hermione Granger. Head Granger, Mister Draco Malfoy.” 

Two things happened to Draco simultaneously. The first was a feeling of absolute dread. Of the Golden Trio, Hermione Granger was the one he would least like to meet in a dark alley. Potter was the forgiving sort, and they had an amicable sort of acquaintance. Weasley would be more likely to blow himself up in a rage than do actual harm to him. Granger… Granger could probably have him dead and disposed of in moments without blood spatter on her clothing as evidence. She likely had the most reason to hate him. He had been abominable to her at school. After she had testified on his behalf in the fallout of the war, he had written her in thanks and apology. She had never replied, which was not unexpected. 

Second, he smelled  _ her _ perfume. The room was small. So small that he was not two full strides from the woman with her back to the door. A significant part of him wanted to drop to his knees and beg her to acknowledge him. 

His mind whirred, trying to incorporate the two disparate pieces of information into his reality. This couldn’t be Hermione Granger. Draco thought it odd that the witch’s name had come up with regularity in the financials of the various brokerages funding The Red Slipper Room but had dismissed it out of hand. And if it was Granger, other people must have the perfume as his mistress. And stand at the same height. With the same hair. 

“Draco,” the woman who could not be his mistress said. “This is unexpected, to be sure,” she pivoted to face him. His world frayed a bit more around the edges because Hermione Granger had his mistress’ eyes. “What brings you to my department?” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Leave a comment or a kudo if you have a mind to do so!


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